The Scar
by igonewild
Summary: Neliel exposes the Sexta's softer, much more vulnerable side. GrimmNel short.


**My laptop broke down so I might not be able to update The Prisoner's Visitor for at least a week, so please bear with me.**

 **Did this on my phone to make up for it, though. One Shot. Enjoy!**

 **I don't own bleach.**

* * *

"You don't have to keep this anymore, you know."

He gazed down at her questioningly when she moved to rest her head on the crook of his shoulder, but remained silent. In barely awake state, he could vaguely understand what his mate was talking about, let alone respond.

Instead his attention shifted to the glorious body lying beside him. Eternal moonlight shone over the smooth, pale expanse of her skin. Grimmjow mentally cursed the sheets for covering so much, but he couldn't find it in himself to remove it; there's just something so sexy with the way silk clung onto her frame, accentuating all the right curves, covering all the right places. It left so much to the imagination that Grimmjow found himself skimming his hand over the damned cloth, willing himself to remember what her body looked like exposed, commiting every dip and curve of feminine muscle into his memory.

When he felt the light pressure over his chest and abdomen, Grimmjow looked down to see her fingers tracing the edges of the scar encompassing his torso.

Grimmjow realized he hadn't responded yet.

"What are you talking about?" His voice was thick with sleep, but it was low and hesitant; he knew exactly what she was talking about. He had kept the scar for god knows how long, and constantly refused to heal it. His fellow Espada questioned him many times about how he was able to do it; Arrancars have the inherent ability to regenerate, it doesn't even require any effort to do so, only patience. All wounds heal eventually, so it's quite a wonder how Grimmjow was able to reject his body's regeneration over a single wound.

Apparently for Grimmjow, not all wounds deserve to be healed.

He had told her it was a reminder; that he had matters to settle with the shinigami brat, and the scar was a proof of Kurosaki's worthiness to be killed by him.

Neliel only rolled her eyes at his absurd reasoning, and that had been the end of it.

But not this time.

This time she was looking at him with cold, calculating eyes, the same look she gave everyone else but him. It reminded him of a much stronger, much more independent version of Nel, the version that never took anyone's bullshit, the version that could break resolve with a blank stare. He felt like a cornered animal under that gaze, and he knew there's no escaping her this time.

Grimmjow was afraid she already knew.

"It wasn't your fault."

Ah, so she did know. He took a sharp intake of breath. He had no idea how, but the woman could practically read his mind, so that shouldn't be a surprise.

Knowing he couldn't hide a single thing from her even if he tried, he merely looked away before sighing in defeat. "I can never forgive myself for it."

He didn't miss how the stoic mask fell only to be replaced by an expression that rivalled his child-form's, her eyes that were cold as ice now melted as it shimmered in the moonlight, threatening to spill. His eyes darted away again, as if he could hide his shame by doing so.

Yes, the scar was a reminder, but it wasn't a reminder of a business left unfinished. It was a reminder thar he committed a mistake unworthy of forgiveness; the same mistake that took the lives of his comrades, his friends.

A mistake that can only be righted by revenge.

It fell silent for a moment, only his mate's uneven breathing disrupted the stillness of it all, and somehow it comforted him a little.

"They never would've held it against you," she whispered almost inaudibly, but he could hear her clearly in the dead of the night. He felt his chest constrict as he heard the words that fell from her lips next.

"There's nothing to forgive."

He closed his eyes. It hurt. In one evening he managed to sacrifice all his companions just to satisfy his bloodlust. To say there's nothing to forgive would mean their lives weren't worth all this guilt. If he could only bring them back. Maybe if he killed the brat, things would be even, and maybe then they could forgive him.

"It's about time you finally forgive yourself, Grimm."

A tear escaped from the corner of his eye and he cursed himself for feeling so weak and sensitive about this, a sharp contrast to the uncaring, volatile, destructive persona he sported every damn day of his life. He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve forgiveness, and yet... And yet-

He felt her body shift until her chest rested on his abdomen. Her breath tickled the marred skin and he just knew what she was about to do.

Would he give himself this chance?

Maybe... Maybe he could forgive himself.

Eventually.

* * *

She watched him intently, carefully waiting for his signal. He didn't deserve the anguish he thought he did. He didn't deserve to feel so much pain. Silently she prayed he would agree to this, so when he gave her the slightest nod of the head, she went right down to work before he could change his mind. The hesitance in the gesture was palpable, a sign that he had only agreed to this because she was being adamant about it, not because he thought he actually deserved it.

But that was enough. She kissed him then, right where the scar tainted his otherwise perfect skin. Slowly, surely, she kissed and licked, and the marks rapidly faded away. Her chest twisted and ached, as if she could feel all the shame and guilt her mate had buried inside the wound, but she was determined to erase it all; even if it was clear on his face that he didn't believe a word she said.

Which was fine.

If he couldn't forgive himself, then she would.


End file.
